everything old is new again
by Heero de Fanel
Summary: Takes place post Sen IV. Emma is helping Machias with some long overdue cleanup when something inside one of the boxes catches her eye.


**everything old is new again**

"I've gotta say," Celine began, observing the bespectacled man set down a large box with a satisfied groan, "for two disturbingly organized fuddy duddies you and your dad sure managed to collect a lot of stuff over the years. No wonder this is taking so long."

Machias sent her a dirty look when he looked up from lifting the flaps, his eyes narrowing behind a pair of silver glasses. "Duly noted. In our defense, we've been rather busy these past couple of… well, years. Still, let the record show that we managed to keep everything in storage without any excess clutter – "

"Until now, anyway," the feline quipped, casting a wary glance at the state of chaos that surrounded them. "Didn't this used to be a living room and not Heimdallr's premier second-hand store? I mean, look at all this stuff! Do you even know what's in most of these boxes?"

He paused, honestly considering the question.

"… Not as such," he finally answered, making a face when Celine smirked at him. "B-But I've certainly got an educated guess or two! Kitchen utensils, dishware, random knick-knacks – "

"You have a vocabulary that beats out most dictionaries and you're going with 'knick-knacks'? Really?"

"– and books, of course," Machias finished, doing what he was once utterly incapable of doing in the face of provocation; overlooking it with some semblance of grace. "Between the two of us we've amassed quite the collection over the years."

Celine scoffed, able to connect the dots in an instant. "Goddess, that's what most of these are, aren't they. How many books do two people need, anyway?"

Now it was the gunman's turn to smirk. "Is that supposed to be a trick question?"

"… Right. Almost forgot who I was talking to," she conceded with an elaborate swish of her tail. "Anything else you can think of?"

"Clothes, probably. Last I checked there was a fair bit collecting dust in the attic along with everything else; I honestly wouldn't be surprised if there were things I outgrew years ago still lying around. Dad's sentimental like that," he finished with a fond shake of his head.

"Emma's probably calling dibs on those," Celine teased. "Probably wants to imagine what you looked like back when you actually fit in 'em."

"She's not wrong!" a melodic voice sang out, sounding like it was struggling to hold back laughter, and Machias turned his gaze towards the stairs to see a smiling Emma gingerly descending, a box of her own balanced in her arms.

"Really? There are pictures, you know," Machias reminded her, a pained expression flashing across his face when he flicked a glance at the photo frames atop the nearby bureau. "Far too many, in my opinion."

"Oh, on the contrary," Emma teased, placing her cargo down onto the couch and giving it a pat. "I don't think there are nearly enough. With any luck we'll find an album or three in one of these boxes and I can have fun looking at more little Machias photos."

He rolled his eyes skyward with a long suffering sigh, much to the amusement of the four-legged peanut gallery. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm fairly sure all that we have is already on display – thank the Goddess."

"Hehe. We won't know for sure until we finish searching, though."

"Which is probably going to take a week and change, judging from the amount of stuff that's been squirreled away over the years," Celine noted, bounding over to Emma's side for a scratch in the blink of an eye.

"As much as I'd like to disagree, you said it yourself – she's not wrong," Machias echoed with a wry shrug. "You really don't have to help any more than you have, by the way. I know it's quite a lot of – "

Emma looked up from a purring Celine and shook her head in faux exasperation, her fingers running their way through the familiar's soft fur. "I'm well aware, but regardless; I'd _like _to help. For one thing, I've never been one to sit idle for too long, and besides… considering how often I'm a resident of this house, I have just as much a vested interest in keeping it neat and tidy as you do," she finished, her cheeks pink.

The corners of his mouth turned up in a small smile at her words; how he loved their current living arrangement, sporadic as it was given their chaotic schedules. "Hmm. I suppose you do, don't you?"

She smiled back. "I'm glad you see it my way." Emma brushed her skirt off and stood up, knowingly ignoring Celine's yowl of protest. "There are a few more boxes upstairs, right?"

He nodded. "I think there are at least a couple of more, though I'm fairly certain those are earmarked for disposal already. As far as I can tell all the major items have been accounted for, so…"

"Oh, good. That means they're probably not too heavy then," she replied, flashing him a quick grin before she headed for the stairs. "Lucky me."

"You're sure she's not gonna find more books up there?" Celine cracked, lazily strolling off in the direction of the kitchen. "There's no such thing as too many books, apparently."

Emma's eyes gleamed, the appealing possibility of additional reading material evidently more than enough to offset her partner's sarcasm.

"Of course there isn't!" she proclaimed happily, bringing one hand to her heart as she ascended the steps with a flourish. "What sort of person would think otherwise?"

"Hmph," Machias grumbled, unable to resist a smile of his own at that. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

Celine, for her part, simply sighed and started daintily cleaning one paw, shaking her head all the while.

"Honestly," she muttered, the warmth unmistakable. "How did that saying go again? The more things change…?"

* * *

She had stayed over often enough to have acclimated to many of the house's quirks, from the persistent squeaks from the second, fourth and seventh steps on the stairs to hot water that took just a second or two longer to start running in the mornings – something she could see being a bit of a nuisance during winter, to say the least.

Something Emma still wasn't entirely used to, however, was just how drafty it could get on the second floor; well-built as the structure was, the wind's chill nevertheless managed to make itself known a little too often for her liking.

_"Like now, for instance,"_ she mused, drawing her arms tightly around her torso to fight off a shiver and wishing she had the forethought to bring a quilt while she had been downstairs. No wonder Machias had taken to dressing in layers…

"Now, where were they?" Emma murmured, pushing the door to his room open and taking a quick look around, her eyes quickly catching sight of three boxes on his (far too small for his frame, how did he sleep comfortably in that?) bed.

Well, he was certainly right about there not being very much. She could probably carry all of this down in one trip, she noted with aplomb as she took a cursory look at the largest box, its top not fully secured –

And then Emma stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes drawn to a shade of blue that she'd have known anywhere, faded as it was.

She hesitated only for a moment; after all, she had time.

With the task at hand forgotten for the moment, her nimble fingers made quick work of the hastily applied tape before unfolding the flaps to reveal the prize beneath; a beaten and well-worn military jacket, neatly folded atop a pile of clothing in similar condition.

Emma frowned when she gently lifted it out and unfolded it, her hands carefully smoothing out the many wrinkles as best they could. There was certainly no doubting that it had seen far better days – the myriad rips and tears in the thick fabric attested to that, along with the state of the once bright armband that still proudly adorned the right sleeve.

… Though come to think of it, it had been the armband that had drawn her attention back then, hadn't it?

Even in the chaos of their initial reunion – out of all the things she had expected during that battle, having Rean and the others charge into the fray was absolutely not one of them – the flash of red in a sea of blue had caught her gaze like a beacon, and an invisible weight had sloughed off her shoulders in an instant when he quickly moved next to her, healthy and whole, her eyes locking with hers in a silent greeting.

(Words were for later, you see).

Their ARCUS units had blazed forth with twin bursts of brilliant light, and when they turned to face the dragon, they did so as one.

She smiled in remembrance as she ran her fingertips along the softer cloth of the armband, shaking her head fondly all the while. They always had worked well together, loathe to admit it as Machias had been during their early days at Thors, and she certainly wasn't above gently teasing him about it when they found themselves as link partners more often than not, much to his embarrassed chagrin.

"You weren't really going to throw this away, were you?" she asked rhetorically, knowing full well what the answer was. With the condition it was in, she could hardly blame him…

_"But then again,"_ Emma thought, turning over the jacket in her hands and letting her fingers drift toward the zipper, _"if he's really set on getting rid of it… then I suppose he wouldn't miss it all that much, would he?"_

She certainly hoped not. After all, she was still a little cold.

* * *

Part of him was starting to wonder if Emma really was scouring the boxes for old photo albums. She _had_ sounded unnervingly eager earlier…

The sound of tape roughly being pulled made his ears perk up, his feet following the noise down the hallway without a second thought.

"Emma? Did you find everything okay?" he asked, pushing the door aside and stepping into his room.

She stood up from the box to greet him with a warm smile, and the sight of the familiar jacket wrapped around her shoulders took him aback for a moment.

It looked better on her than it ever did on him. He decided to keep that to himself.

"Hmm. I could have sworn I packed that away," Machias said, raising an eyebrow as she tried and failed to look innocent. "Interesting."

"You did," Emma replied, her hand toying with one of the dangling sleeves and her voice as sweet as spun sugar. "But a draft came in and I noticed it sticking out, so…"

He nodded. "Fair enough, but I should probably point out that I own other coats too," Machias said dryly, carefully observing the way the thick fabric draped over her slim frame. "Ones that don't look like they've been through multiple warzones. Are you sure you wouldn't rather have one of those?"

She shook her head, her lips playfully curling into a (sinfully alluring, in his admittedly biased opinion) mock pout. "I like this one, though."

"I feel compelled to ask why."

"It has character, for one."

"And since when did multiple rips and tears constitute character, again?" he countered immediately, anticipating another mischievous rejoinder.

Instead, he watched and stayed quiet when she exhaled slowly, her mirth giving way to something infinitely more serious and – substantial?

No, solemn might have been a better word, come to think of it. Or sacred. Maybe he was barking up the wrong tree entirely and it didn't even start with 's'; for all that Celine joked about his expansive vocabulary, it didn't seem to be helping much right now.

His eyes never once left hers.

"These rips and tears tell a story, Machias," she didn't quite admonish, looking at the armband with a tender gaze, the afternoon light catching her hair through the window and making the braided waves gleam.

"Oh? And what story would that be? The harrowing tale of a boy on the lam with his two friends, desperately avoiding danger at every turn, the trio stumbling and tripping as they try to stay one step ahead of the chaos around them?"

Truth be told, he'd have probably read it if he hadn't lived it. It did sound compelling.

She giggled. "Hehe. Well, the boy might have stumbled and tripped a little less if he had remembered to bring a pair of contacts with him for reconnaissance, but… that's not exactly what I had in mind, though it's certainly part of it."

He waited patiently, studiously ignoring the heat spreading under his collar and into his cheeks.

"There was a girl," Emma began, nostalgia in every word, "who loved to knit, read every book she could get her hands on, and was born to a duty far greater than anything her fables could have ever conjured in her imagination. Just like the boy and everyone else in their class, she was forced to run after their darkest hour had come to pass, never once looking back no matter how much she wanted to."

She tightened her grip on the sleeve, her knuckles turning white before she forced herself to exhale, the tension dissipating just as quickly as it had come.

He understood. Those had been difficult days.

"While on the run with her friends, she wondered. All she could do was wonder, really. Was her partner all right, in the face of everything that had happened? Was the Awakener all right, in the face of their comrade's betrayal? And what of the boy, who had been trying so hard to let go of the anger and hurt that he had carried for such a long time?"

Emma stepped forward, one hand coming up to cradle the side of his face, feather light – almost like he was going to break. Or disappear.

(Never.)

"She wondered, she waited, and she worried. About her partner, who had been with her since the day she was born. About the Awakener, who had started as a variable to be observed but had become a dear, dear companion, just like everyone else."

Her soft thumb brushed across his jawline, drawing forth a shiver, and Goddess; when was the last time he had shivered within these walls?

"And of course about the boy; the one that spoke and laughed and glowered within a part of her heart that was only his," Emma whispered, the summer sky in her eyes bright, cloudless, dangerously beautiful. "Not that she was able to truly understand that at the time."

She hadn't been alone.

"… If it helps, the boy was foolish enough to think his scattered moments of panic and fear were nothing more than concern for a devoted rival."

She smiled. "Actually, it might."

"My apologies for interrupting. How does the story end?"

"Oh, like how so many of them do; with a twist of fate that only fits either in real life or strange fiction. Driven into a corner and besieged by a dragon straight out of a child's nightmares, the girl's ears heard people calling at the same time her eyes caught a glimpse of red on war-torn blue…"

Machias smiled back. "The boy?"

"The boy, battle scarred coat and all." Emma hummed, her arms winding around his neck with an ease borne of practice. "He was beside her in a flash, alive and well, and so were many of her other friends that she had feared for. Together again, they vanquished the monster, as all good heroes did, and the girl went to sleep that night having finally cast aside the doubts and worries about her duty that had plagued her for so long, leaving room for more… pleasant things."

He knew a cue when he heard one.

"Such as?"

"Such as wondering if it was only her imagination that made him look a rige or two taller, and blushing when she did." She paused, her face searching his, their noses almost touching. "She'd never blushed over the small things before, you know."

He actually hadn't. Not until now.

Machias wondered what else he had to learn about her. He was sure that he was going to enjoy the years he would spend finding out.

"It could very well have just been her imagination, or something as mundane as the boy's choice in footwear. Or maybe – just maybe – she shrank a touch?" he offered, teasing playfully in a way that was once unthinkable coming from him, the boy's hard edges having been long since softened.

The girl might have had something to do with that, of course.

She frowned up at him with narrowing eyes, her brow knitting (again; sinfully alluring). "He just grew. It turned out to be a habit of his, unfortunately."

"Hmm. If you're that sure, then I suppose he must have," he conceded, not quite smirking.

Emma sniffed indignantly, her delicate features sharpening into a mock glare that was probably supposed to be piercing but was mildly unsettling at absolute best, though she didn't pull away when he lowered his head and kissed her crown, losing himself in the scent of her hair.

"… She used to wish she were a little taller, sometimes," he heard, the confession sheepish and shy.

He trailed his way down to her forehead, then her eyelids. One cheek. Then the other.

"He likes her just the way she is," he breathed, his lips brushing the tip of her nose and a hand resting on the small of her back (playing with fire, only she could make him so reckless) and then she was moving up onto her tip-toes to kiss him properly, her fingers slowly weaving their way through his dark green hair and sending lightning roaring up and down his veins.

Distantly he recognized that his vocabulary was failing him again; all that was running through his head was 'perfect', and Aidios only knew that wasn't close to enough.

The air was still and peaceful when they at last separated, the blessed silence only broken when Emma blushed and looked at her feet.

"I love this jacket."

"I gathered that."

"It has a _story_."

"Indeed it does."

"It's also very warm."

"A necessity both in the field and the second floor of this house."

She giggled, bright and victorious. "Hehe. I can keep it, then?"

He sighed in resignation, though the affection was plain to hear. "If you're sure you wouldn't rather have a better one."

Her cheeks darkened. "There's no such thing," she told him boldly, a confident set to her jaw, and she pulled him down for another kiss before he could say anything else; a touch cliché, perhaps, but even he could acknowledge cliché had its place.

By the time he had regained his bearings, he was lying prone on his (respectably sized, thank you very much) bed, with Emma curling against him, her arms still laced around his neck and her half-lidded eyes holding him in rapture.

"You know," she murmured, sedate and quiet, their foreheads touching, "I'm not entirely convinced there aren't any more photo albums lying around somewhere."

"Hmph. Of course you aren't. We can look later, if you're so inclined."

Emma smiled.

"Hehe. I'd like that."

* * *

They rested peacefully until twilight came, heading downstairs to make dinner when the sun disappeared below the horizon, and when Celine strolled in from her customary afternoon walk, she regarded the oversized jacket Emma was wearing with no small amount of amusement.

"Huh. Looks like I wasn't wrong about the second-hand store thing."

Machias groaned.

"Well, if you wanted to make things even," Emma teased, carefully setting the ladle down as steam merrily danced around the top of the pot, "I could always try to find my old hat. It would look good on you, I think."

"Somehow I doubt that," he groused, but said nothing more when she reached over to delicately brush his palm with her fingertips, the warm skin tingling at her soft touch.

* * *

AN: Credit to the Falcom Fanfic Discord for inspiring this; there was a conversation about boyfriend sweaters a few weeks back, and this story (which was supposed to be a shortfic, WHOOPS) was the result.

This is _mostly_ their fault, though an old fanart from iori147 (can't link on this site, check out the fic on AO3!) certainly didn't help matters :P

* * *

**OMAKE**

"Well, if you wanted to make things even," Emma teased, carefully setting the ladle down as steam merrily danced around the top of the pot, "I could always try to find my old hat. It would look good on you, I think."

Celine snorted.

"That's way too boring. Why not have him try on some of your old glasses instead? Oh, better yet – have him try on your old uniform! Y'know, like Dorothee wrote in that one story that him and Jusis aren't supposed to know about?"

A strangled gasp.

A horrified squeak.

A pointy ear to pointy ear grin.

"Oops."


End file.
